“Yes,” I said.
Chloe let out a breath. “Natasha…”
“I’m not going for what they think,” I added, before she could talk me out of it. “I’m not going to clap for her. I’m not going to be her prop.”
“And what are you going for?”
I could hear the edge of fear in her, the concern of someone who’d watched me get cut down with smiles and laughter and family dinners where the cruelty was served with the mashed potatoes.
I glanced at the invitation again, at the gold that gleamed like a promise. “A final audit,” I said quietly.
Chloe went silent.
“You’re serious,” she whispered.
“I am.”
“You’re… you’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I know.”
The truth was, I’d been playing dangerous games my whole life without calling them that. When you grow up in a house where love is conditional, you learn early how to measure your footsteps, how to hide your victories, how to swallow disappointment so it doesn’t show on your face.
Miranda had been declared the star before either of us had a say. Robert and Linda—my father and mother—had built their world around her like she was the sun and the rest of us were expected to orbit.
I could still picture it: the childhood living room full of dance trophies with Miranda’s name engraved in neat script, the framed photos of her in costume, the way my parents’ faces lit up whenever she entered a room. The way their faces didn’t change when I did.
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